#kcandywrites

It had caught him off guard. He’d been mopping the precinct floor, head down, focused on making himself useful. His back was turned to the door, he hadn’t seen you walk through, coffee in hand. The long handle of his mop swung back, sending the plastic cup flying from your grip.

He whirled around, panicked. His eyes darted to the cup on the far side of the room, brown liquid flowing onto the freshly cleaned floor (,which he would have to clean again) and then, finally, to you.

You didn’t look angry. Just… surprised. A little startled, blinking down at the mess.

“Oh my—! I’m so so so sorry! I, uh, let me—can—um, I’ll buy a new one! I really didn’t mean to, I—I swea—” The words tumbled out, his palms getting damper by the second.

You just waved a hand, a small, easy smile touching your lips. “It’s fine, no worries. I shouldn’t be having so much caffeine anyway.”

And then you did the unbelievable. You bent down, picked up the empty, crumpled cup, walked it to the trash bin, and dropped it in with a soft plink. You didn’t sigh. You didn’t shoot him a look of contempt. You just… walked away, leaving him standing there, frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs.

After that, Herman started noticing you more.

You were one of the secretaries at SDN, a bright spot of color in the grey hum of the office. And, completely coincidentally, the floors around your desk needed an exceptional amount of maintenance. A shocking amount, really. It was almost as if someone kept finding reasons to spill a little water there. The grout there seemed to collect dust at an alarming rate. Could anyone blame him for being thorough? A man had to take pride in his work.

And if his work happened to offer a perfect view of your desk… well, that was just a nice bonus!

He just wanted to see more of you. Was that so wrong?

You were so pretty in that pencil skirt of yours, so cute when you were focused, brow furrowed, lips pursed as you typed, not even noticing how intensely he’s staring at you.

You were completely unaware of the world around you.

Completely unaware of him.

That was the best part, in a way. He could watch, unobserved: how you’d tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a soft sigh, a sound he’d strain to hear over the slosh of his mop bucket. He learned the pattern of your days: when you took your coffee, when you leaned back to stretch, how often you’d check the clock,

You’d usually smile and wave at him at the start of the day, your “morning, waterboy,” being his motivation to come to work everyday. He’d push the mop in slow, lazy arcs just to stay in its glow a little longer. And you never shooed him away. You never wrinkled your nose or scoffed like the others did. You were too kind.

And though your kindness was the very reason Herman had fallen for you, he was starting to realize it was also a problem. A serious one..

Like when you agreed to take your coworker’s shift for the night, even though he could tell you were tired as hell. Or when you apologized when someone else bumped into you.

People would see your gentleness and would exploit it. They took advantage.

Like last Tuesday, when that lazy intern from Accounting dumped a stack of overdue filing on your desk at 4:55 PM. “You’re a lifesaver! I’d stay, but I’ve got plans,” he’d said with a wink you didn’t return. You just sighed and Herman saw your smile strain “Sure! No problem.”

No problem? Herman’s grip tightened on the mop handle. You were exhausted; he could see the tension in your shoulders from across the room. But you just… accepted it. He could feel his blood begin to boil. They didn’t see your value. They didn’t understand that your kindness was a precious resource, not a public utility to be drained. They were careless with something he treasured.

He knew he couldn’t shoo them away. He couldn’t tell them to stop. He was just Waterboy, they’d laugh in his face and walk off. So he did what he did best. What he was for.

With a damp squeak of his waterproof suit, Waterboy shuffled up to your desk. “H-hey, I’m pretty much done here, but I should just…” he mumbled, reaching out.

His wet hand came down not next to the stack, but directly on it. He pressed down, just for a second, letting the moisture seep through the top sheets.

“Oh! Oh, no!” he yelped, snatching his hand back, his eyes wide with manufactured horror. “I’m so sorry! It’s all- it’s ruined,, I-

The intern’s eyes landed on the desk. On the stack of papers he’d just handed off—now a warped, dripping pulp under Waterboy’s apologetic, hovering hands. The ink from the top form was already running in blue tears down the side of the pile.

“What the hell?” Mark blurted, his smirk vanishing.

“I’m sorry! I’m so, so clumsy!” Herman wrung his hands, his gaze darting between the ruined paperwork and your face, searching for your reaction “It’s all my fault, I’ll- I’ll help reprint them, I swear, I just-”

“You wet freak! Ugh, forget it, whatever. I’ll do it myself” he scoffed and stormed off.

The work was gone. You were free.

You tsked and turned to Waterboy, “Don’t listen to him, Waterboy. Accidents happen.” Then you leaned in slightly, almost whispering, a grin touching your lips. “And this specific accident just saved me hours of work. So… thank you.”

He managed a jerky, damp nod, his throat too tight to speak as you gathered your things to leave.

Thank you.

Those simple two words made him feel something.

He had helped you, he’d become your hero. And he craved more of that validation, that rush.

So after some thought he realized to be a proper guardian, he needed more information. He couldn’t just react to threats in the office; he needed to understand the source of your weariness, the contours of your world outside these walls.

It started with simple observation. He already knew your schedule better than his own. Now, he committed it to memory. You arrived at 8:42 AM, never 8:30 or 9:00. You took your lunch at 12:15 PM, always at your desk. You left between 5:00 and 5:20 PM, depending on the day’s burdens. You almost always had a homemade sandwich for lunch,Tuesdays were often turkey. Fridays, sometimes egg salad. You’d often bring snacks too. He took note of which ones liked.

He also listened. Not obviously—he was just Waterboy, pushing a mop—but his ears were finely tuned receivers. He learned you hated the loud hum of the old photocopier. He learned your mother’s name. He learned you were thinking of getting a cat but were worried about the responsibility. And he learned that you lived alone.

And if he remembers correctly, you didn’t come here by car. Could it be that you lived close? Or maybe you took the bus? He need to know.

So, that evening, he followed.

You walked. which meant you lived close.

It felt like destiny—a sign that his guardianship was meant to extend beyond the office’s borders. Of course you lived nearby. It was more efficient, more logical. It also meant your path home was exposed. And with winter approaching, it started getting dark earlier.

He told himself it wasn’t stalking. He was just checking on you, making sure you got home safe. He was preparing. How could he protect a world he didn't understand? This was research. This was devotion.

He stayed a full block behind, his jacket hood up, his hands shoved in his pockets, causing a water stain to appear.

He watched you stop at a small grocery store. He waited outside until you emerged with a single bag. He saw you climb the steps to a modest, small house in an okay-looking neighbourhood . A soft, yellow light clicked on in the front window. Your window. The curtain, he noted, didn’t quite meet the frame on the left side.

He stood there in the drizzle for a long time, watching the light. He wasn't invading. He was establishing a perimeter. Now he knew. Now he could truly protect you.

But it wasn’t enough. It never was. The craving for you was a physical ache, a hollow in his chest that only the sight of you could temporarily fill. He needed… pieces. Proofs.

It started with the pen. The one you'd left on the break room table. A simple, cheap ballpoint, chewed lightly at the end. He'd pocketed it, his heart a frantic drum in his chest. Later, alone in his damp, sparse apartment, he held it like a sacred relic. It smelled faintly of your hand lotion, that soft vanilla scent. He kept it in a small box under his bed.

A box that would soon be filled with all sorts of things: a hairpin, a single, perfect strand of your hair still coiled in its clasp. A crumpled receipt from the grocery store. A discarded tissue from your trashcan (he'd been "cleaning"). Each item was a treasure to him.

But that didn’t satisfy him either.

He needed to capture you. To stop time.

Soon, blurry, grainy photos would get taken from across the street as you left work. Or a shot of you laughing with a coworker, your hand covering your mouth. Another shot of you bending down to grab a pen you dropped, your skirt outlining every so curve perfectly it left him breathless. He'd zoom in while lying in his plastic covered bed at night, his hands shaking, heart racing, breath heavy.

He’d even print the photos out, placing them in the secret box.

He knew he was crossing lines.This isn't normal. This is sick. This is wrong. He'd look at the pathetic little shrine under his bed, at the blurry photos, and a wave of shame would wash over him. This wasn’t just a crush anymore, this was an obsession, an addiction even.

But it was a paper dam against a flood. The next morning, he'd see you. You'd smile at him, a simple, kind "Morning, sleep okay?" and the shame would evaporate, burned away by the need of your attention. Every smile was a hit of a drug.. Every laugh that escaped your lips, even if it wasn't for him, sent a jolt through him. He craved you. Not just your presence, but your essence, your warmth, your everything.

He fantasized about a different life. One where he could walk up to you in the break room and say something smooth, something funny. He'd rehearse conversations in the mirror, his reflection stammering and sweating.

“Hey, that report you did was… really thorough.” “Cold out, huh? Maybe we could… get a coffee to warm up?”

But every time he tried to actually approach, to say more than a mumbled apology or a choked greeting, he just…couldn’t. His carefully rehearsed words would dissolve into an incoherent mumble. He'd see the faint, polite confusion in your eyes—not unkind, just a gentle “Hm?”—and he'd panic, mutter "S-sorry, uh..nevermind." and shuffle away.

It’s okay, though. You didn’t need to understand him. As long as he understood you, everything would be okay. He would be your silent guardian, your unseen protector. Ready to protect, even if you never noticed he was there.

Like right now, for example, as you’re lying on your couch watching TV.

The blue light from the screen flickers against your living room window—the window whose curtain still doesn’t quite meet the frame on the left side.

He’s just making sure your safe.

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

You were so pretty like this, sitting in your pjs, a mug in your hands, bare face, messy hair. 

You were real. You were right there. He wished one day he could see you like this without needing to hide. 

He lifted the phone, opening the camera app. He zoomed in, the image shuddering slightly as his hands struggled to stay perfectly still.

He watched as you took a sip, your throat working as you swallowed. He watched as you closed your eyes, just for a second, as if steeling yourself. He knew that gesture. It was the one you made just before diving into a difficult task at your desk. What difficult thing were you facing now, all alone in your kitchen?

You shouldn't be alone, he thought. You should have someone to share these quiet burdens with.

The focus sharpened on your face.

A cold droplet of rain hit the screen of his phone. Then another. He glanced up; the sky had opened a downpour. He looked back at you. You should have someone to bring you a blanket. To ask if you wanted the window closed. To sit with you in the quiet.

He would. One day. He was proving he could. He was learning all your quiet moments, all your burdens, so that when the time was right, he would know exactly how to step out of the darkness and into the light of your kitchen. He would know what to say, what to do. He would help.

He pressed the button, capturing a picture of the quiet scene. He had not realized though, that he had flash on.

The bright light was especially noticeable again the darkness of the sky. He saw your head snap towards the window and he quickly pressed his back against the cold, wet siding of your house, just beside the window. holding his breath.

He stood in the drenching rain, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He should really leave now.

But instead he stayed. And he listened.

No footsteps were heard, or any movement at all. You didn’t stand up to check the window, or close the curtains, or turn off the lights.

Nothing.

Did you not notice? But— it was so bright! How could not have?

Or maybe…Maybe you didn’t mind?

His breath grew heavy and his hands griped the wet phone tightly.

Maybe you like this. Maybe you liked him.

"You make me feel safe, Herman," you had said.

That had to mean something, right?

Finally, with movements stiff from cold and awe, he pocketed the phone. He took one last, longing look through the streaked glass at your silhouette and then he melted back into the downpour, becoming just another shadow in the drowned alley.

In his damp, sparse bathroom, he peeled off his soaked clothes. And jumped onto his bed, nearly slipping off the plastic wrap. He excitedly slid the secret box out from under the bed and placed it on his lap. But before placing the newly printed photo (he had even bought a mini printer just so he could do this faster), he took out some of the older ones. He couldn’t help but smile. 

Soon. Soon you’d finally be his.

And tomorrow, he would walk you home. He would stand at your doorstep in the evening chill. He would look into your eyes, and he would search for a flicker of the knowledge he now held. He would say goodnight, and he would wonder if you were already moving to the kitchen, to the window, to wait for the comforting proof of his watchful eye in the dark.

He fell asleep still shivering, a small, serene smile on his face, dreaming of the day he wouldn't have to walk away.

The next day, you wore the earrings, the ones with the little blue stones he’d said looked like water droplets. You mentioned a new album you were listening to, and as always, he listened. However, he noticed you were a bit more quiet, unsure almost. It was barely noticeable, but he knew you like he knew the back of his hand. 

At your doorstep, he didn’t linger in his usual, hesitant way. He planted himself, his gaze holding yours directly. The evening chill seemed to part around him.

“You’re quiet today,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was an observation.

“Just tired,” you replied, the automatic excuse. But you held his gaze, were you inviting him to see through it?

He did. A slow blink, a micro-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The rain last night was loud,” he said softly. “It kept me awake. I kept thinking… it’s not a good night to be alone. To be… unsettled.”

The rain. Last night. Alone. Unsettled.

You remembered the flash. The warmth of the tea against the sudden cold in your veins.

“I was fine,” you said, your voice remarkably steady. “I made some tea. It was… peaceful.”

His breath hitched, just a tiny, ragged intake. Peaceful. You had named the feeling he’d worked so hard to create. 

“Good,” he breathed, the word laden with a profound, trembling weight. “I’m… I’m glad.”

He didn’t say goodnight. He simply nodded, a deep, respectful bow of the head, and turned. He didn’t look back as he walked down the path, but his shoulders were set with a confidence you’d never seen before.

You went inside. And you went to the kitchen. 

He knew you would, hoped for it as he stood beside the same window.

You moved to the sink, filling the kettle. You were still in your work clothes, but you’d taken off the cardigan, and the thin fabric of your blouse did little to hide the tense set of your shoulders. You placed the mug on the counter—the same one from last night. You were re-enacting the scene. For him!

A wild, dizzying hope surged in his chest. This was communication. This was reciprocity. You were telling him, without words, that you wanted him there. You couldn't possibly see him. The outside was a pool of black, the interior light turning the window into a mirror for you. Still, you must’ve know he was there, you must’ve felt his gaze.

For seven nights this continued.

He would stand at his post by the window. You would move through the kitchen—making tea, reading a book at the table, staring pensively into the steam of your mug, always there, as was he. It was a nightly sacrament. He’d return to his apartment buzzing with a pure, devotional high, placing the new photo in the box with the reverence of a priest archiving a holy relic.

But by the fourth night, the high began to dull. The photos, —the way your hair fell that evening, the specific sweater you wore and how it slid off your shoulder—began to feel like copies. He’d memorized the angles of your kitchen, the pattern of the laminate floor, the way the light from the dining room fell at 8:47 PM.

The craving returned, deeper and more insistent. He hungered for texture, for dimension, for proximity. He wanted to feel the scent of your tea and your laundry detergent mingling in the air, the soft sound of your sigh, the ambient warmth of a space you inhabited.

On the eighth day he stood at the same spot. You had long gone to bed now, but he couldn’t make himself leave.

Now, at this point it would be incredibly stupid to deny that he was a creep. But he liked to tell himself he wasn’t that much of a creep. And sure, he did fantasize of sneaking into your house multiple times— but that was different!

You’re insane and a weirdo, one voice hissed in his mind. This is breaking and entering. This is the line.

But is it? argued the other, She knows I’m here. She leaves the curtain open. She performs for me. This isn’t violation… it’s the next level of trust. She is giving me access to her sanctuary. She is waiting for me to understand the invitation.

She hasn’t said you can come in!

She hasn’t said I can’t. Her actions speak. Her peace is permission.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

His gloves were thin latex, the kind he used for detailed cleaning. From his pocket, he withdrew a small, well-oiled lockpick set—a recent acquisition for a guardian who might need to ensure egress in an emergency, of course. 

The click of the bolt retracting was the loudest sound he’d ever heard. He froze, ears straining. Nothing. Only the hum of the refrigerator from within.

He pushed the door open just wide enough to slip inside, and closed it carefully behind him.

The silence of your house was different from the silence of his apartment. This silence was yours—warm, lived-in, thick with the aroma of vanilla, tea, and your scent. He stood in the dark kitchen, breathing it in, and a tremble of pure, ecstatic awe wracked his frame. 

He didn't move at first. He just stood, didn't even touch anything. He just looked. The mug in the sink, a faint lipstick mark on the rim. The specific way the dish towel was folded over the oven handle. The magnet holding a takeout menu to the fridge. 

Then, he allowed himself a single, trembling touch. He ran a gloved finger along the spine of the book you’d left on the kitchen table. He could feel the texture of the cover. 

It wasn’t enough. It was everything, and it wasn’t enough. He needed to see where you slept. He needed to see you.

To complete the circuit. To truly know you were safe.

He ghosted down the hallway, drawn like a magnet to your bedroom, he’d memorized your layout from when you had opened your door wide enough while walking in.

Your bedroom door was ajar.

His heart stuttered, then settled into a hard, rhythmic thump against his ribs. Of course it was open. Of course. 

Was this a sign?

He edged closer, until he could see the slice of room revealed by the gap. He could make out the shape of your dresser, the silhouette of a chair draped with clothes.

And there, in the center of it all, underneath the blankets was you.

He could hear your breathing. Slow. Deep. Trusting. This was the core of you, unguarded and at rest. Because of him. Because he made you feel safe.

So this is where he was meant to be, right?

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

Deviders by @/saradika-graphics

You thought Herman was a really nice guy. After all, he cared for you in ways no one else ever had. He remembered the small things—your tea order, the ache in your back, the books you might like. He walked you home every night to make sure you were safe from the "stalker" you'd once confessed you feared. He stood at your doorstep and looked at you like you were something precious, something worth protecting.

Except…

Except you had a crippling suspicion that he was the stalker. Of course the thought was completely ridiculous when it first came to you, however now, no uncertainty was left as sat on his bedroom floor and stared into a small box. A box filled with you.

That morning had started normally. As always.

You'd woken to grey light filtering through your curtains—the curtains you'd started leaving slightly parted, though you'd never admitted to yourself why.

At work, Herman was already there, pushing his mop in slow, lazy arcs near your desk. He looked up when you walked in, and that smile—that soft, sweet smile—curved his lips. "Morning," he said, his voice steadier than it used to be when you had first talked.

"Morning, Herman," you'd replied, and you'd held his gaze a beat too long, searching for something you weren't sure you wanted to find.

The day crawled. You filed reports. You answered emails. You watched Herman make his rounds, always orbiting your desk, always finding reasons to be near. And the question that had been festering since the bus, since the book, since the flash of light, circled in your head.

Where do you actually live, Herman?

At 5:02 PM, you packed your bag. He appeared at the edge of your desk, quiet nod, expectant pause. The walk began.

You let the silence stretch longer than usual. The autumn air bit at your cheeks. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk in little spirals.

"Herman," you said, your voice softer than you intended. "Can I ask you something?"

His head tilted. A flicker of something—alertness, caution, anticipation—crossed his features before answering. "Of course. Anything."

You chose your words carefully, "A few weeks ago, I… I took the bus home. Earlier than usual. And I saw you. At a bus stop." You watched his face, the micro-shifts in his expression. "You got on a bus going the opposite direction of my—our neighborhood."

You could feel him recalibrating behind those soft, earnest eyes.

"I thought you said you lived close," you continued, keeping your tone light, curious, trying your best not to sound accusatory. "Aviation Avenue, right? But that bus…" You trailed off, letting him fill the silence.

He did, after a second too long. A small, self-deprecating laugh escaped him—"Oh. Oh, that." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of embarrassment so perfectly executed it made your chest ache. "I… yeah. I should have explained. I do live near Aviation— or uh, I used to, at least. But I just moved in with my grandma. She's… she's getting older, needs help with things. Her place is on the other side of town."

The explanation tumbled out, seamless and sad. A devoted grandson. Of course. Relief and shame washed through you. You couldn’t believe you'd spent weeks nursing suspicion against a man who was only caring for an elderly relative. You felt horrible for doubting his innocence after he’d done so much for you.

"Oh, Herman," you breathed, your hand instinctively reaching out to touch his arm. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to accuse you of anything, I just—"

"It's okay," he said, and his eyes were so warm, so understanding. "You were curious. That's… that's normal. I should have just told you earlier."

You smiled, the tension draining from your shoulders. "If you need any help unpacking or something, I'd be happy to help. You've helped me so much, after all."

Something shifted in his expression. A quick intake of breath. A widening of his eyes that could have been surprise, or something else entirely. "You'd… you'd want to come over?"

"Of course. It's the least I can do."

He swallowed. Nodded. "Okay. Yeah. That would be… that would be really nice. Maybe this weekend? My grandma will probably be out at noon"

"Saturday?" you offered.

"Saturday," he repeated, a wide smile spreading across his face. "I'll text you the address. It's… it's not much, but—" he said, standing in his usual spot.

"I'm sure it's lovely," you interrupted, smiling. "I'll bring snacks."

"Okay…Goodnight," he breathed.

"Goodnight, Herman."

Saturday arrived sooner than Herman was expecting.

He had spent the intervening days in a state of oscillating between excitement and panic. You’re coming to his apartment. You want to help him unpack. This is intimacy. This is progress. This is the next level.

But first, he had to create an unpacking.

His grandmother's house was already full—stuffed with sixty years of her life, her cats, her embroidered doilies, her collection of ceramic birds. It smelled like lavender, old wool and cat food. However his bedroom, the room he'd actually occupied for years, had to look like he'd just arrived.

He stood in the doorway of his room, heart hammering, and assessed the disaster. The plastic-covered mattress. The single chair facing a small television. The walls already plastered with posters of various metal bands and bookshelves filled with comics and such. A few empty mugs on his mess of a desk.

So he'd spent Friday night trying to make his room look not so lived in. He cleaned his desk for the first time in forever. He stripped the posters from the walls, rolling them up carefully and placing them in a half-empty box in the corner, filled with random items he found lying around, to suggest he'd just started settling in

He cleared the bookshelf, shoving the carefully curated volumes into another, slightly bigger box.

The room looked… plausible. By Saturday morning, he'd added the finishing touches: a few items deliberately placed to look fresh—a toothbrush still in its packaging on the dresser, a duffel bag half-emptied on the floor, a stack of shirts waiting to be folded.

The doorbell rang.

He opened the door and there you were. Real. Solid. Smiling at him.

"You came," he breathed, and he couldn't help it—his face did that thing it always did around you, the flush, the eagerness.

"I said I would." You held up a small bag. "I brought snacks. And some fancy tea. I figured your grandmother might like it."

You'd brought him things. You'd thought about him, and even about his grandmother.

"You didn't have to," he managed, his voice thicker than he intended. "But… thank you. That's… that's really thoughtful."

He stepped aside and watched you enter.

He watched your face as you took in the interior: the doilies, the ceramic birds, one of the many cats wound between your ankles, and you bent automatically to scratch its ears.

"It's… cozy," you said, and your smile was genuine.

"My grandma's in the living room," he said, leading you forward. "She's excited to meet you. I've told her about… about my friend from work."

His grandmother looked up as you entered, "Oh," she said with a pleased look. "You're the pretty girl from the office. Thank you for keeping my Hermy company, not a lot of people do."

You glanced at Herman, surprised. He felt heat creep up his neck. "I, uh—just, you know, office photos. Group things. She, um, she likes to know about my day."

It was true, he'd shown his grandmother photos of you—not the box photos, obviously, just casual ones, ones he could explain away. "This is my friend," he'd said, pointing at your laughing face. "She’s really nice, and really pretty too." His grandmother had agreed.

You sat with her for a few minutes, making gentle conversation. She asked if you had a boyfriend. You said no. She asked if you liked cats. You said yes. Which made her smile as she patted your hand and told you Herman was a good boy, a little strange but good, and you should be patient with him.

Herman watched from the kitchen doorway, bringing you both tea—the fancy one your brought—and felt his heart swell to bursting. This was it. This was the life. You in his home, talking to his grandmother, existing in his space like you'd always belonged.

After a while, his grandmother's eyes began to droop. The cat in her lap stretched and resettled. You took the cue gracefully, standing and murmuring that you should let her rest.

"I'll show you my room," Herman said, and the words came out before he could stop them. "I mean—to help unpack. If you want. There's not much, but—"

"Of course," you said, “That’s what I came here for after all.” He led you down the hall to his bedroom, the door already open, the staged room waiting. The boxes in the corner. The fresh sheets.

You stepped inside, looking around with polite interest. "It's bigger than I expected," you said. "Nice light."

"I just… haven't really made it mine yet," he said, hovering in the doorway. "Still figuring out where things go."

You turned to the box in the corner, kneeling beside it. "Well, that's what I'm here for. What's in here? Kitchen stuff? Books?"

"Uh—mix of things," he said, his voice tightening slightly. “Let’s start with this one.”

The next two hours were the best of his life.

You helped him "unpack" in earnest—which mostly meant rearranging items that had been in his room for years. You asked about the bands on the posters. You held up a pretty worn out book and asked if he'd read it. He said yes, it was an old favorite. You asked if you could borrow it when he was done settling in. He said yes so fast he nearly choked. He couldn't believe you were taking interest in his things. His things. Touching them. Wanting them.

You laughed at his stories. You asked questions about his grandmother, about the cats (you learned all their names), about his favorite spot in the neighborhood. You sat cross-legged on his floor, and you looked so perfectly at home that he couldn't breathe.

At one point, you held up a framed photo—an old one, him as a teenager, awkward and pimpled, standing with his grandmother at some long-forgotten fair.

"Oh my god," you said, dissolving into laughter. "Herman. Your hair."

"I went through a phase—"

"Oh that I can see" You were grinning, holding the photo up next to his face, comparing. "=The all black clothing and ripped jeans. The frown. Were you trying to look mysterious?"

"Yes…” he admitted, and your laugh was so bright that he felt it in his bones.

You set the photo down gently, still smiling. "You were cute. In a sad puppy kind of way."

"And now?"

The question slipped out before he could stop it. Your eyes met his, and for a moment the air between them changed. Thickened.

"Now you're…" You paused, your head tilting slightly as you looked down at your hands, then back up at him through your lashes. "Still cute."

The word lodged itself in his chest like a bullet. Cute. You thought he was cute. Present tense. Now. Here, in this room, on this floor.

He opened his mouth to say something—he didn't know what, maybe ‘thank you’, maybe ‘I love you please marry me’, maybe something stupid and desperate—but you were already turning away, already reaching for another box, already releasing him from the intensity of your gaze.

"We should probably actually unpack something," you said lightly, but there was a flush on your cheeks that hadn't been there before. "Instead of just going through your embarrassing childhood photos."

"Right. Yeah. Unpacking." He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering. "I should—I'll get us more tea. And those snacks you brought. You must be thirsty."

You smiled up at him. "That would be nice."

He practically fled the room.

The room was cozy now that you'd spent time in it. The posters gave it personality. The books and comics on the shelf were carefully arranged, you'd pulled one down, one of Herman’s claimed favourites, and flipped through it while you waited for him to come back.

It was annotated. Small notes in the margins, observations about characters, predictions about plot. You smiled. Of course he was the type to annotate books.

You slid it back onto the shelf and glanced around. The room felt… lived in already. The sheets were creased from the package, but the pillow had a slight indent., probably his old one. The closet door was closed, but a single slipper peeked out from underneath.

You knelt to look at the books on the bottom shelf, and that's when you saw it.

The corner of a box. Just visible under the bed, pushed against the wall.

Probably more unpacked things, you thought. Maybe you could help with those too, while Herman was making tea.

You reached under and pulled it out.

It was smaller than the others. Lighter. A simple cardboard box with a lid, the kind you'd keep shoes in. Curious, you lifted the lid—

And the world stopped.

A few hairpins, the ones you'd lost and replaced without a second thought.

His voice whispered in your head. “Your— uh, your hair looks really…pr—pretty like that”

Crumpled tissues, the faint pink of your lip balm still visible on one.

”I can, uh, take out the—the trash for you, if, uhm, if you want. I’m taking out mine any—anyway right now…”

A button you'd lost from your favorite coat months ago.

“Don't worry, I, uh.. I replaced it for… for you. I know it’s your favourite!”

A receipt from the cafe, your usual order shakily circled with a pen.

“Your favorite. Uh…I just memorized it from…uhm, from last time.”

The box slipped from your fingers, landing on the thin carpet with a soft thump. From inside, muffled by the photos, you could have sworn you heard a soft, contented sigh.

And the photos. God, the photos. The top one had you in your pajamas, mug in hand, steam curling around your face. That’s when you saw the flash, wasn’t it? You’d dismissed it as a car’s headlights, a reflection. Your eyebrows furrowed as you scrambled through the pictures. There were at least twenty of them, maybe more. You couldn't count past the blurring of your vision. All in different settings—your desk at work, the sidewalk on your walk home, the cafe window, your kitchen. The center was always you. You laughing. You frowning. You walking. You breathing. You sleeping.

On the back of the photo was a small note scribbled with a black pen. "You talk in your sleep. You said my name."

On a separate piece of paper, in careful handwriting: "I was going to take your hairbrush, but you’d surely notice, I didn't want to spook you. Not yet."

On the back of photo of you smiling at him— you hadn’t even noticed him taking it— was another note, "Do you feel safe?"

Your hands trembled around the box. It was too much for you to handle. He was there almost every second of your day, every step you took he was there. Your heart hammered in your chest as you realized you were not in control. You had never been in control.

The box slipped from your fingers, landing on the thin carpet with a soft thump. “No. No, no, no—” you whispered.

"Oh. You found that. I was hoping you wouldn't."

Herman's voice came from behind you. You were so panicked you hadn't even heard his footsteps, hadn't heard the soft thud of the tea mugs being set down, hadn't heard anything over the roaring in your ears.

You spun, still on your knees, still clutching the photo like it might save you or burn you. He stood in the doorway, blocking it completely. His frame filled the space, backlit by the hallway light, his expression impossible to read.

His voice wasn't panicked. It wasn't even rushed. It was calm. So calm it made your skin crawl.

"I—" You tried to stand, but your legs wouldn't cooperate. Your back hit the edge of the bed. "Herman, this is—these are—"

"Proof," he finished for you, stepping into the room. One step. Then another. "Proof of how much I care. Proof of how long I've been taking care of you."

The box lay open beside you, its contents spilled.

"You've been in my house," you whispered, and your voice cracked on the last word. "You took pictures of me sleeping. Herman, that's—that's—"

"Love," he said softly. "That's love."

He knelt, slowly, bringing himself to your level. His face was so close now. So familiar. The same face that had smiled at you this morning, that had blushed when you called him cute. But there was something else in it now. Something that had always been there, you realized. You'd just been too naive to see it.

"See how much I care for you?" He reached out, and you flinched, but his hand only hovered near your cheek, not quite touching. "No one else could love you as much as I do. No one else sees you like I do. Every moment. Every expression. Every sigh. I know you better than anyone."

"Herman—" Your voice was barely a rasp. "This is—this is insane—"

The word hung in the air. Insane. You saw hurt flicker in his eyes.

"I'm not insane," he said, and his voice was still gentle, still patient. Like he was explaining something to a child. "I'm devoted. There's a difference. Insane people hurt the ones they love. Have I ever hurt you?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Have I ever hurt you?

No. He hadn't. He'd made you feel seen. Loved.

"I've only ever helped you," he continued, his voice softening further. "I've protected you. I've kept you safe from everyone who would use you, who would take advantage of your kindness. Do you remember how tired you used to be? How anxious? When was the last time you felt that way?"

You tried to think. When was the last time you'd felt the old dread, the old exhaustion? When had the paranoia faded?

Around the time he started walking me home.

"See?" He smiled—that same sweet, shy smile that had made your heart flutter. "You're better now. You sleep better. You're happier. Because of me. Because I've been here."

"I need you to understand something," he said, and his hand made contact with you—not grabbing, not gripping, just resting lightly on your knee. "I have never wanted anything but your safety. Your happiness. Your peace. That's all I've ever wanted. And if that makes me crazy—" he shrugged, a small, helpless gesture, "—then I guess I'm crazy. Because I’m so in love with you."

Your throat was so tight you couldn't speak. Tears were sliding down your cheeks, hot and silent.

"Shh," he murmured, and his thumb brushed your knee, a tiny, soothing motion. "It's okay. You're home now. With me. Safe."

Home.

You were in his bedroom. In his grandmother's house. Surrounded by photos of yourself, by evidence of months of stalking. And he was telling you that you were home.

And somewhere, deep in the part of you that had always been so tired, so lonely, so desperate to be truly seen—

You found yourself nodding.

Because he was right, wasn't he? You were safe. You'd never felt unsafe with him. The fear had only come after you knew. Before that you'd felt nothing but warmth. Nothing but comfort. Nothing but the profound, peaceful certainty of being cared for.

He'd given you that. He'd given you peace. His hand squeezed your knee gently, then withdrew.

You're home now. With him. Safe.

A/n: final chapter yayyyy!!!! Honestly, this is probably one of my favorite things I've written, especially this part. I really hope you enjoyed, thank very much everyone for the nice comments and reblogs and THE ART!!!! This was super fun!

Tags: @yumeharold @number1loser1 @ghostbustersfan10 @peterz-panic @deliciouslovewhispers @twohandsthreeholes @unfortunatefangirly @vanillaberrimade @hellaciousreccenter @bxttxrflybxddie @binatch @nemesisyphus @rockettwo @muchoomoorek

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

You watched him return with a mug from your usual spot at the dispatch terminal. His screen was a frantic mosaic of alert. The stress was practically radiating off him in waves. You’d always been… attuned to him. Maybe it was the shared dispatcher bond, the shared insanity of herding chaos. Or maybe it was something else.

You admired him, though. Everyone at the branch did, in their own way. The former Mecha Man, now just Robert in a slightly rumpled SDN polo, handling the ex-villain team with a patience that felt superhuman in its own right. He carried the weight of every call, every hero’s ego, every civilian in peril, as if it were a personal debt. He always did so much for others, always putting everyone before himself. Also one of the smartest people in the branch, you often found yourself asking him for advice when you were puzzled. And almost always his tips and tricks would genuinely make your job so much easier.

So, seeing him so thoroughly worn down, so dead behind the eyes, stirred an unfamiliar ache in your chest. He did so much for everyone else. Who did anything for him?

And then it happened. Muttering a curse, Robert pushed back from his desk a little too hard. His chair rolled, the wheel catching on the uneven floor tile Chase was always complaining about. He overcorrected, his momentum carrying him sideways. There was a dull thwack as the corner of a filing cabinet met his temple.

Chase hurried quickly over the check on him and help him stand back up.

““Whoa, kid! Easy, easy. Let’s get you up.” His voice was gentle but laced with alarm.

Robert waved him off, dazed. “I’m fine, Chase, geez, it’s just a—” He tried to stand, and the world tipped. His hand flew to the side of his head as a sharp, nauseating pain blossomed. When he pulled his fingers away, they were slick and crimson.

“Damn it,” he hissed, more in frustration than pain. Blood welled from the gash and began a slow, steady trickle down his temple

In that state, concussed and bleeding, there was no way SDN protocols would let him continue. They’d bench him, send him home to an empty apartment where he’d just sit in the dark, worrying about the team he’d left behind.

Chase had an arm around him, already steering him toward the infirmary.

As they passed your station, Robert’s bleary gaze flickered to yours for a half-second—a flash of embarrassment, of apology for the disruption. That look did it.

So after thirty minutes you entered the infirmary, closing the door quietly and checking of Robert was unconscious. And he in fact was. You stepped closer to the bed.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This is stupid. This is a violation. He didn’t ask.

But then again, he would never ask. Not for himself.

So you reached out a hand, placing it gently on his temple.This was your power. The paperwork called it “Transference Healing.” You could take an injury—a cut, a burn, a broken bone—onto your own body, leaving the victim whole. The pain, the wound, the recovery time, it all became yours. You used it sparingly, discreetly, it was a power you didn’t really want to use that often. But Robert needed this.

A gasp tore from your lips as a bolt of blinding pain exploded in your own temple. Your knees buckled, and you grabbed the edge of the desk beside the bed, knuckles white. The world swam, sounds muffled as if underwater. A warm, wet sensation traced an identical path down your face. When you touched it, your fingers came away red.

On the bed, Robert stirred. A deep, easy breath. The tight line of pain between his brows had smoothed away. He looked, for the first time all day, truly at rest.

You wiped the blood from your fingers, splashed cold water on your face, and adjusted your hair to cover the new wound. You took one last look at his peaceful face, then slipped out as quietly as you had entered, leaving him to a healing sleep he would never know he owed.

The walk back to the dispatch floor felt longer, the fluorescent lights stabbing into your eyes. The muted cacophony of alerts, typing, and low chatter now felt like a physical pressure against your skull.

You slid into your chair, your screen a blur of color-coded chaos. You forced a breath, fingers finding the home row keys. Just get through the shift. Just match heroes to crises. Don't think about the throb, the warmth, the dizziness.

However, doing your job was much harder with a throbbing headache than you’d thought. You tried your best not to look like you were in agonizing pain, but there wasn’t really much you could do.

And that was something Robert noticed first the moment he returned from the infirmary, now feeling much much better somehow.

He noticed how your eyes would squint anytime your monitor showed a bright sign, or how your breath was slightly hollow, or how pale you were getting. Of course he noticed, he was an observant man after all.

However everytime he tried to approach you during breaks you managed to find a way to avoid him.

Robert leaned against the doorframe, a silhouette against the fading twilight of the parking lot. The last of the day shift had trickled out. His jacket was on, his posture deceptively casual, but his gaze was fixed on you with the unwavering focus

There was no way for you to avoid him now..

You gathered your things slowly, each movement calculated to minimize the pounding in your skull.

As you approached the door, he didn’t move, forcing you to stop mere inches from him.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low. It wasn’t the gruff dispatch tone, nor the forced patience he used with the Z-Team. It was softer.

“Robert,” you managed, offering a tight smile. “Heading out? Long day.”

“The longest,” he agreed, his eyes not leaving your face. They tracked the subtle tension around your eyes, “You look like you’re about to hit the deck. More than I did.”

“Just a headache. It’ll pass.” You made to step around him, but he shifted, just enough to block your path.

“A headache,” he repeated, the words flat. He let the silence hang for a beat, “Funny thing. I went into the infirmary with a concussion and a gash that needed stitches. I woke up with neither. The medic’s calling it a spontaneous rapid healing event.”

You kept your eyes on the floor, on his scuffed boots.

“But I know what I felt,” he continued, his voice dropping even further. “I know the feel of a head wound. And now…” He finally moved, not to let you pass, but to reach out. His hand was steady as he gently, so gently, brushed the hair back from your temple.

You flinched, but it was too late. His thumb, calloused and warm, grazed the edge of the angry line on your skin.

“You have my cut.”

“I’m sorry… I know I should’ve asked or something. But I wanted to help you! You always do so much for other people and I—”

The words tumbled out, each one tightening the vise around your skull. A white-hot spike of pain lanced through your temple, and you swayed, a soft gasp escaping you.

“Hey, hey, easy. Just breathe.” Robert’s voice cut through the static, low and gentle. His arm around your shoulders tightened, becoming an anchor, holding you firmly against his side. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think. The shift’s done. It’s over.”

“Now,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Just give it back. However it works. Reverse it. I can take the headache, the cut, the whole damn concussion. I don’t want you carrying this.”

You shook your head stubbornly, “No,” you whispered, the word a thin thread of defiance. “I’ll manage it. I keep it. That’s the deal.” Even as you said it, your body betrayed you. Your hand, which had been gripping his arm for balance, tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket as a fresh wave of vertigo washed over you. The world tilted on its axis.

“Damn it,” he breathed, the curse a soft exhale of pure frustration. Not at you. At the situation, at his own perceived helplessness. “The deal’s trash. You don’t get to martyr yourself on my behalf.”

“Robert, I…” you started, but your tongue was too heavy.

He heard the shift in your voice, the sudden, hollow thinness of it. He stopped walking, his grip shifting. “Look at me.” His command was urgent. “Eyes on me. Stay with me.”

You tried. You really did. You lifted your gaze to his—to the stormy blue-grey eyes that held a universe of concern just for you. But his face was swimming, the edges blurring into the light. The last thing you registered was the stark alarm flashing across his features, the way his arms moved from supportive to bracing.

Then, the world didn’t so much go black as it simply… gave way.

“Got you. I’ve got you.”

His voice reached you as if from the end of a long tunnel, muffled. The hard floor never came. Instead, there was a sudden, secure sensation of being lifted, one arm hooked firmly under your knees, the other cradling your back and shoulders. He gathered you against his chest as if you weighed nothing.

“Stubborn.”

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No, really, you had been there when no one was, you helped him out when he was at his worst, you were able to make him laugh when he felt like all the happiness was sucked out of him. His existence was a series of necessary actions: patrol, sleep, teach, repeat. It was efficient.

Then you arrived.

His thoughts, which once orbited solely around duty and danger, now consistently drifted to you. What would you think of this report? Would you like the strange cat he saw on patrol? Was it too late to call you just to hear your voice? You were the center of his life, the sun in his galaxy. He oriented himself by your light.

Until it flicked off.

Aizawa felt this would happen. He had felt it from the start, he had felt the cold dread coiling in his gut from the moment the plan was announced. It was dangerous, risky, and definitely not full proof.

Which is precisely why he’d followed you back to your agency office.

“Don’t do this,” he had said, his voice low with urgency as the door clicked shut behind him. “They could send anyone. Call in sick. Tell them you’re tracking a different lead. Hell, just walk away. Anything. Just… sit this one out.”

“It’s an order, Shota. From the top. Besides, my Quirk is the most suitable for this. It gives me the best chance.” You’d sighed, frowning.

“It’s an undercover infiltration, not a frontal assault!” Aizawa’s voice had risen a fraction, the control he prided himself on beginning to fray. He gestured sharply at the file on your desk. “Your Quirk has nothing to do with intel-gathering! What if they see through you? What if one small mistake, one wrong look, and they figure it out? They won’t arrest you. They’ll kill you.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

You met his gaze, So what?” you asked, your voice weirdly calm. “I should let someone else go in my place and get killed instead? You know I can’t do that.”

He stared at you, silenced. He wanted to argue, but he knew nothing he’d say would change anything.

After all, he knew how you felt. Of course he knew. Being a pro-hero meant always sacrificing yourself, always putting the lives of others first, there was simply no room for self-preservation. He knew that well, because he was the same way. And he was asking you to do something he himself would never, ever do: be selfish.

His shoulders slumped in defeat as you’d cupped his cheek, feeling the rough stubble under your palm. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second.

“I have to go,” you’d whispered, “I’ll be careful. I’ll come back to you.”

You’d kissed him then, a soft, lingering promise.

The first week, the silence was a living thing. He tried to keep his mind off you, tried to focus more on work, but he just couldn’t. It was impossible to focus on filling blanks when the only thought in his head was how you’re practically surrounded with Japan’s most dangerous villains.

The worst part was that he didn’t even know how long the mission would take. So every single day he felt the anticipation killing him slowly. He kept his phone on, the volume cranked to its highest setting. Every vibration, every chime from a news alert or a student's email, sent a jolt through his system so violent it felt like a physical blow.

They’re just maintaining radio silence, he’d tell himself, staring at the lesson plans on his desk without really seeing them. Deep cover. It’s protocol. They can’t risk a signal.

He’d find himself standing at the window of the teacher’s lounge, his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if he could somehow see the moment you’d cross it and come back to him. He’d imagine it—you, tired and worn, maybe with a new scar, but whole. Alive. Walking through the gates, your eyes finding his, a small, weak smile just for him.

He’d just pull you into his arms, bury his face in your hair, and breathe you in.

At home, he left your things exactly as they were. The book under your pillow. The hair tie on the bedpost. After all, when you’d come back, you'd need to pick up where you left off. You’d want to find your things where you’d left them.

He’d cook for two, every night. He’d set your plate at the small table, an act of faith. He’d eat his portion, and then he’d wrap yours in cling film and put it in the fridge. For when she gets home, he’d think, she’ll be hungry.

The second week, the hope became a frantic, clawing thing.

He started jumping at shadows. A knock at the door, Hizashi coming to check on him, had his heart hammering against his ribs so hard he saw spots. The sound of a certain laugh in the UA corridors would make him freeze, his head whipping around, only to see a student or another teacher. The disappointment felt like physical pain.

Aizawa scoured the news, his eyes scanning every report from the front lines, every blurry image of the fighting. No sign of you.

Hope was the only thing keeping him upright, keeping the crushing weight of reality at bay. Because to let go of the hope—to even entertain the thought that you weren’t just silent, that you weren’t just delayed, but that you weren’t coming back—felt like giving up on you.

So he waited. He watched the door. He listened for your step in the hall. He clung to the memory of your last kiss, the feel of your palm on his cheek.

It was the start of the third week, a Tuesday evening, when Aizawa got the call. For a second, just stared at his phone vibrating on the coffee table. The sound felt too loud in the silent apartment. His hand moved before his mind caught up, thumb sliding over the screen.

The voice on the other end said his name once. Softly, almost with pity.

The next few words didn’t quite register. All he heard was “Mission compromised”, “remains found”, “She’s gone”.

Aizawa set the phone down carefully, like it might shatter. He sat there, on his couch, for a long time, eyes fixed on nothing. The air felt heavy, like he might just suffocate. It pressed in on him, a physical weight on his chest, making each breath a conscious, laborious effort.

He didn't remember standing. One moment he was on the couch, the next he was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, his body moving on an autopilot.

Aizawa sat down on the bed, The mattress groaned softly, the same sound it made when you'd both collapse onto it after a long day.

His gaze drifted to the framed photo on the bedside table —you were both in your hero costumes, fresh from some minor skirmish, hair a mess and uniforms smudged with dirt. You were beaming at the camera, a brilliant, sun-bright grin that reached your eyes. He was standing just behind you, his arm around your waist, looking at the camera with a barely-there quirk of his lips, a failed attempt to suppress a smile. You had teased him for that photo, saying it was the only one that proved he had a soul.

His hands, usually so steady, were trembling as he reached for the frame. The glass was clean—he'd dusted it just days ago, part of his ritual of waiting, but dust had begun to gather around the edge. He set the pictureframe back down, beside the velvet ring box. The one you never got to open.

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